“Stop apologizing.”
“No, I didn’t mean…” Seb trails off, gesturing to his arm. “I meant I’m sorry for storming off. And snapping at your roommate.”
“As I said, Mia already got over it, and Linden was okay the next morning. Nothing to worry about.”
Seb hums at that, then shrugs one shoulder. “Not like it would have led to anything anyway. So maybe it was better to cut it off right there.”
“Maybe,” I answer hesitantly. I’m already thinking of Mia’s texts again, debating whether to tell him, but Seb clears his throat.
“I think we should stop doing it altogether.”
I blink at that, then tilt my head. “Okay? I mean, we never had to. You know that, right? If it made you uncomfortable—”
“No!” He interrupts me so forcefully that I lean back.
“Sorry, I—I mean, no, I’m never uncomfortable with you. But…I met someone.”
“Oookay? Someone you like? Or someone your mother likes?” I ask. It’s an important distinction because Seb is always seeing someone. Some Alpha Gamma Zeta Phi Tri Thau girl, that is.Usually, he takes them out on a few dates, treats them like a princess, then drops them right before things can get serious.
He completely disregards my question, though, either pretending he hasn’t heard it or being too deep in his worries already.
“Also, Ro thinks it’s getting out of hand. People are talking already. He thinks it could lead to bad press for us when we’re making our NFL debuts. Like, when some of the girls start talking. Or worse: make things up for money.” Seb’s voice gets urgent now, and he’s gasping a little like Coach just made him run extra laps for being late.
I have to suppress a snort at that because I know Seb’s brother doesn’t give a flying fuck about what the public thinks of me. This is solely about Seb and the legacy he’s meant to carry into the big leagues. The fact that he didn’t answer my question tells me everything I need to know.
“Seb. Hey.Listen: we never did anything wrong, okay? And there’s nothing anyone could use against you—people are talking because they’re jealous or don’t have hobbies. Ifyoudon’t want to keep doing this, that’s okay. We’ll stop. Just don’t spiral on me,” I tell him. He’s scratching again, but I don’t interfere this time.
“It’s not just about me, Micah! I’ll be fine. But what about you? God, I was selfish to ask you to do this with me. I don’t want to ruin your career over some baseless gossip,” he insists, his dark eyes pleading with me. There’s a lot between the lines he doesn’t say out loud: he’ll be fine because theDavenportname is a shield. Three generations of NFL money know how to stomp out an ugly rumor. But there’s nothing to protect an underdog like me. Not even the truth.
I can’t help myself; I reach out to drag his hands away from where they’re clawing at his upper arms. Squeezing them in mine, I hold his gaze.
“We’ll stop. But you didn’t ruin anything. I agreed to everything we did. No harm done, okay?”
Seb nods, and I think back to Mia.
And Mike.
No harm done.
Yet.
Micah, June 8th
Mia’s suggestion stays with me throughout the whole day. I make myself a big bowl of oats with milk and a carefully measured scoop of protein powder to stop my stomach from eating itself, then spread out on the couch as I scroll the internet for summer jobs. I should have done this weeks ago. I could kick my ass thinking about the balance in my bank account right now, but the pickings are incredibly slim this year. In the end, I always come back to rereading Mia’s messages. Several times, I type out an answer, then delete it again.
By the time the door starts opening and closing in quick succession, my roommates trickling in from whatever they’ve been doing, I haven’t made any progress on the job hunt—or Mia.
“What should we do about dinner?” Sasha asks, like I’m the authority on mealtimes—which isn’t wrong. I cook, and they keep the fridge filled. That arrangement works out for everyone, but mostly me.
“Uhm…well, I could scrape together a pasta salad, or we’ll have to go get groceries first,” I offer.
“Ugh, no, I’m beat,” she groans and drops onto the couch beside me just as Nicko walks in, a pack of chips in his hands.
“We could order something,” he suggests as he crunches on a small piece. My stomach drops as I quickly do the math in my head. It’s still early in the month, and the party already tore a hole in my savings that I didn’t see coming. I’d been sure the captaincy would go to Seb. When Coach Wagner handed it to me instead, I couldn’t turn it down. And once you make captain, you throw the damn party—it’s a tradition. I kept it as small as I could get away with, but I’ll still have to be thrifty for the next few weeks.
“I’ll whip up something quick,” I tell Nicko while he shakes out the last crumbs into his palm, then frowns at the pack.
“I swear they keep making these smaller and smaller.”
